I slowed and pulled off on the shoulder to get my bearings. I was at Potter’s Landing, which was about ten miles south of town.
I began to make a U-turn, waiting long enough for a white Ford Bronco to pass by, but it didn’t. It slowed and pulled off the road at an angle blocking me from the front. It was Matt Skipper, and he was not alone. Three other men were in the Bronco with him—all white, all COs, although not in uniform. One of them was Shutt. I could tell by their expressions that this was not a social call.
I jammed the gear shifter in reverse—it ground in protest—and punched the gas pedal. I began to move backwards, although not very fast because my truck had some carburetor problems. I did move away from them, though, and that was the point. When I looked over my shoulder, something I usually do before I start to back up, I saw a car approaching in my lane. The car, a green Buick, was maybe twenty yards away. I jerked my steering wheel hard to the right, and in a few seconds I was off the highway again. I slammed on my brakes just before plowing into a rather large pine tree.
I thought about flagging down the Buick, but as it got closer, I could see that it was an elderly couple. There was nothing they could do, except let me use their car phone, if they had one. I had a fleeting thought of the luxurious car and car phone I had in Atlanta. I missed them both, but mostly the car phone at the moment.
Once the Buick passed, I gunned it back onto the highway and headed toward town. Skipper was close behind. In a matter of seconds, he had caught up with me, my old Chevy no match for his new Ford. He pulled up beside me in the left lane, not a problem on the desolate road. He swerved away from me going to the edge of his lane and then swerved back and slammed into me.
I tried to steady the wheel, but it was no use, both of my right-side tires went off the road. The truck bumped and bounced hard on the uneven ground of the shoulder. I resisted the urge to jerk my steering wheel back toward the road. Instead, I slowed and eased back on. Skipper was maybe ten feet in front of me now, still in the left lane.
I wanted to stop. I wanted to go in the other direction. But to get any help at all and not run out of gas, I had to continue toward town. Glancing at the gas gauge, I knew I wouldn’t make it. My tank and perhaps my life were not even half-empty. I looked up again to see Skipper slowing to match my pace.
As he did, I sped up and passed him. I downshifted, which was the only way to get any power out of my little truck, and floored it. I gained speed, but I lost precious fuel.
In less than fifteen seconds, Skipper caught me again. This time he came up from behind. When he caught up with me, he didn’t slow down. He hit me hard from the back. I was thrown forward in a classic whiplash motion and realized that in my disorientation at the afternoon’s events, I had failed to buckle up. Needless to say, I remedied the situation.
After buckling up and praying to arrive alive, I checked my rearview mirror. Skipper was no longer right behind me. Now there were maybe fifty yards in between us. I checked my gauge again, not good, and looked at the road in front of me again. It was empty. When I looked back for Skipper again the distance between us had increased to a hundred yards.
And then he began to increase his speed, decreasing the gap between us. He was coming up fast. It was decision time. I knew I couldn’t outrun him. I knew I couldn’t outmaneuver him. I was in trouble. I had the gas pedal to the floor, and I was doing just over sixty-five. Before I could think of what to do, he was right on me again. I braced myself.
He plowed into me hard. I pitched forward, but the seat belt snapped me back. My bumper dropped off, causing Skipper’s Bronco to bounce up in the air as he ran over it.
That was it. He had bumped me hard, yet I had managed to keep it on the road. I felt encouraged. Pottersville was less than seven miles away now. I just might make it.
And then my engine died. I was out of gas—literally and figuratively. How, I do not know, but I had the presence of mind to pray.
When my truck finally rolled to a stop on the right shoulder of the road, Skipper and company were right behind me. They jumped out quickly. I knew it was only delaying the inevitable, but I locked my doors. Within seconds a tire iron crashed through my window. Glass shattered everywhere. My eyes fixed on a single shard of glass as it slid the length of my dashboard.
When you get hit on the nose, it has a feeling all its own, and, besides being hit in your credentials, nothing hurts worse. This is especially true if you are hit very hard in the nose with a tire iron.
Blood spurted out; cartilage shifted, and bone crunched; my eyes filled with those painful, I-got-hit-in-the-nose-with-a-tire-iron tears; and the pain made me nauseous. I fell over to the side, but not very far—the seat belt held me up. Somebody grabbed me by the shirt, which ripped open as buttons shot like bullets across the cab.
Someone snatched me hard from the seat, but the seat belt held. He yanked even harder, jarring me unmercifully. My brain felt as if it were rattling around inside my skull. Finally he figured out that the seat belt would not give me up, so he unbuckled it. He yanked at me again, and this time I went flying out.
I had probably seen him at the prison, but everything was blurry, and I didn’t recognize him. He reared back and hit me hard in the gut. I fell down as my lunch came up.
I knelt there vomiting as they stood around laughing. On my last heave, I fell forward. With everything in me, I tried to get up, but I couldn’t.
“Search the truck,” Skipper called to Shutt. I lay there with tears, blood, vomit, and dirt smeared all over my face while they searched the truck.
“It’s not here, boss,” Shutt said.
“Get him up,” Skipper yelled.
He got right in front of me after two of his men were holding me vertically again. “Where the hell are those tapes, you son of a bitch?”
I thought I answered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” but evidently nothing came out.
“Answer me,” he yelled again, and this time his spit joined the other disgusting things on my face. Of everything, it disgusted me most.
He turned, and with his back to me he said, “Okay.”
That was just what the two men holding me were waiting for. One got behind me to hold my hands back as the other one moved in to position in front of me. They were placing me in the classic working-over pose. However, rather than keeping me from defending myself, the man behind me was actually keeping me from falling to the ground.
The guy in front of me began working on my midsection as if he were doing a heavy-bag workout. My knees buckled, but the officer behind me held me up. I began to heave again, but everything in my stomach had been purged. I coughed in between heaves. The heaving and the coughing only produced blood. It wasn’t a lot of blood, but it was my blood, which made it way too much blood.
“My turn,” the officer behind me said with an evil sneer.
He was enjoying this way too much. Come to think of it, they all were, with the possible exception of Shutt, who seemed not to have the stomach for violence.
The officer released me, and I crumpled to the ground as they switched positions. I could see the boots of Skipper and the other officer on the other side of the truck, and it looked as if they were still searching through it. When the two officers had switched positions, the one behind me kicked me hard with his pointed-toe boot and said, “Get up, you big pussy.”
I tried.
Finally, he yanked me up, primarily by my hair.
The officer in front of me said, “Hold him still now. I don’t want no moving target. I held him still for you.” The officer holding me began to push me from side to side as if I were a boxer bobbing and weaving. “Cut it out,” the one in front said.
“We got to give him a fair chance now, Jeff, don’t we?” He continued to jerk me from side to side, but I could tell his arms were getting tired. As his grip loosened, I thought of trying to break free to run. When he finally did get so tired that he released me slightly, I fell to the ground again
.
When he pulled me back up to my feet, he said, “Now be still, boy. Can’t you see we got work to do? The one in front drew back like he was about to pitch a baseball and swung his fist fast and furiously toward the left side of my head. The blow landed between my ear and eye.
And then the strangest thing happened. Somebody turned off the lights.
Chapter 36
I awoke to the muted sounds of soft, constant beeps, whispering voices, and the low hum of an air conditioner. Everything sounded as if I were in outer space or under water.
When my eyes finally opened, they closed again from the assault of the bright light.
Someone said, “Close the blinds. He’s waking up.”
Someone else said, “Okay.” Both voices sounded excited.
My eyes opened again. I saw white light, less bright now, but still very present. A TV mounted on the wall in front of me played CNN. I lifted my right hand. Something was attached to my forefinger. I tried to remove it, but a hand descended out of the sky and prevented me.
My eyes followed the hand up the arm to the body to which it was attached. It was a beautiful goddess with large brown eyes and long brown hair. Beside her was another one. The second one looked like Bambi with a broken nose. Bambi? Laura. And Anna.
Thank you for letting me live. I love you.
“I must be in heaven,” I said. There was laughter, so my words must have come out, but I hadn’t heard them.
The loudest laughter came from the left of the bed. I looked over to see Merrill standing there with a wide grin on his face.
“Oh, no. It must be hell,” I said. And this time it was the ladies who laughed.
“How are you feeling?” one of the ladies asked.
I turned in that direction again, which didn’t take more than five minutes, and said, “Who said that?”
“I did,” Laura said with a warm, adoring smile as she rubbed my leg. Anna had dibs on my hand and arm.
They would just have to share.
“I feel like I just went fifteen with Foreman,” I said.
“You look it, too,” Merrill said. This time I didn’t attempt to look at him.
I looked up at Laura and said, “Anna, Merrill, this is Laura Matthers. Laura, this is Anna and Merrill.”
They all laughed. “We know each other pretty well by now,” Anna said.
“We’ve been in here looking over and praying for your white ass for the past three days,” Merrill said.
“I don’t remember.”
“You’ve been resting,” Laura said.
I was puzzled, which must have registered on my face.
“You been out cold, man,” Merrill said.
“What? For three days?”
They all nodded.
“How do I look?” I asked.
Laura started to speak, but Merrill beat her to it. “You look like you went fifteen with Foreman and him fighting with a tire iron.”
“You look ruggedly sexy,” Laura said. Anna nodded in agreement.
“That’s two against one for ruggedly sexy. Sure you don’t want to reconsider your assessment?”
“I calls ’em likes I sees ’em, boss. We never lie to a white man, boss. Nosuh.”
“You got a mirror? I’d like to judge for myself.”
“Doctor say no mirror for at least a month. He scared you off yourself if you see what you look like,” Merrill said.
By the time Merrill had finished saying that, both Anna and Laura were offering me mirrors. I tried to take one. It didn’t work.
“Here, let me,” Laura said as she held the mirror in front of my face. Anna backed away gracefully.
My nose was taped up with some sort of plastic device to support it. Both eyes were black. There were a few cuts and scrapes on my face, many already well on their way to healing. The underside of my chin was split open pretty bad, but there didn’t seem to be any stitches, just butterfly Band-Aids.
“A ruggedly sexy raccoon. Why am I not dead?” I asked.
“You look pretty bad, but it’s not worth ending it all just because you ugly,” Merrill said. “You’s ugly before.”
“I guess you’re right. Why didn’t they kill me? What happened?”
“Some loud Negro in a big-ass pimpmobile-looking car scared them off.”
“What were you doing driving your uncle Tyrone’s car?” I asked.
“He needed my truck to haul his old lady’s dresser. She leavin’ again. Twice every year he has to borrow my truck. Once to move her big black ass out and again to move it right back in. Come to think of it, it’s four times a year. Her ass is so big it take two trips each way.”
“How many years have they been doing this?” I asked.
“As long as I can remember. Anyway, Anna told me to look out for you. She say you could probably use a big, strong, handsome, black bodyguard ’bout now.”
“She was right. What took you so long to snatch me from the jaws of death?”
“You’s drivin’ everywhere. Never stopping. I didn’t know how long you’s gonna ride. I finally had to stop for gas.”
“That’s what I should’ve done,” I said.
“You can say that again.”
“That’s what I should have done. What happened when you pulled up in the pimpmobile? Did they come over and ask you for some ladies?”
“I made a lot of noise coming in—horn honking, firing a gun. They took off.”
“White flight,” I said. “It happens when you black pimpmobile-driving hoodlums move into the neighborhoods.”
“I suppose so.”
“Did you see who it was?”
“Sure did. Now they in your daddy’s jail. I’ve heard complaints of police brutality, but I said that police don’t be brutal to no white men, especially fellow law-enforcement officers.”
“Especially them,” I said.
“Skipper’s going to pay for what he’s done,” Anna said. “Merrill and I went forward with everything you had told us. He’s already been arraigned. Now he’s just waiting for a probable-cause hearing.”
“For what?” I asked.
“Murdering Johnson and Maddox, of course,” she said. She could tell by the look on my face that something was wrong. “Are you all right? What is it?”
“What other charges were filed against Skipper?”
“Just attempted murder, for what he did to you. The DA said that was enough. Don’t you think that’s enough?”
“No. It’s not nearly enough,” I said.
“Why?” Anna asked.
“Because he didn’t do it.”
“He tried to kill you twice,” she said emphatically.
“Yes, but he didn’t kill Maddox or Johnson.”
“Of course he did. Who else would have killed them?”
“I’ve got some ideas, but it doesn’t matter. I’m no longer involved. I’m suspended, and I feel like I’m lucky to be alive. They won. I quit.”
“I think he’s guilty,” Anna said. “Skipper’s the worst kind of cop. He’s rotten to the core.”
“He is rotten, and he’s guilty as sin, but he didn’t kill those men, and they’ll figure that out.”
“Who?”
“The inspector, FDLE, the sheriff’s department. Somebody.”
“And, if they don’t?” Anna asked.
“He get what he deserve anyway,” Merrill said.
“Right,” I said.
“No, it’s not right, and you know it. If you really believe Skipper didn’t kill them, you have to do something. You can’t just allow this to happen. You’re not even sounding like yourself.”
“Anna’s right,” Laura said. “You’re not a quitter. You have to see this thing through.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, “but quitting is what I do best. I’ve been practically fired and practically killed, and I’ve had enough. If you all are so concerned about Skipper, go and do something about it. I’m not. I don’t have nine lives.”
“He’s just upset,” Anna said. “He’s been through so much.”
“That’s not it. You were right,” I said. “I had no business getting involved in the first place. I was meant to be a chaplain, and now I’ve screwed that up, too.”
“There are other jobs,” Laura said. “I’m just grateful you’re alive.”
“So you not going to do anything about Skipper?” Merrill asked.
“No. My religion forbids retaliation. I’ve turned both cheeks, and he’s pulverized them both. You going to do anything about him?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Are you going to do anything about your job?”
“Clearing my name, all that stuff? I don’t know. We’ll have to see what happens.”
“What about this?” Merrill asked and slung a newspaper on my chest.
“Merrill, no,” Anna said, “now’s not the time.”
I attempted to pick up the paper. When I had struggled with it for maybe five seconds, Laura picked it up and held it in front of me. It was the Tallahassee Times. The headline just above the fold and to the right read: “Former Atlanta Pastor Charged with Sexual Misconduct Again.”
A wave of sickness crashed over me, and I began to heave—a deep, painful, dry heave. It was happening again. My world was closing in on me. I felt as if I were suffocating.
“I told you he didn’t need to see that now,” Anna said. “My God, he’s been in a coma for three days.”
“He need to see it now more than ever. He need to finish what he started.”
“Merrill’s right. I needed to see it. I can’t hide from it.”
I looked up at Laura. Her eyes were warm and reassuring. “Lucy,” I said in my best Cuban accent, “I got some splainin’ to do. I’m just not up to it right now.”
She smiled at my lame joke and said, “You have nothing to explain to me. I’ve spent the night with you, remember? I know you. Besides, Anna told me everything.”
“She doesn’t know everything,” I said and laughed.
“She knows a lot,” Laura said and smiled.
Anna smiled, too.
It was overwhelming.
After they left, I went back to sleep. I slept the rest of the night and most of Friday, only waking long enough to eat and move around the room a bit at the doctor’s insistence. Late Friday night I eased into my wheelchair and slowly, dreadfully rolled to Mom’s room. I felt so guilty, a feeling not uncommon to our relationship over the years. I couldn’t believe it had taken me being put in the hospital myself to make me visit her. I had told Laura how important it was for me to reach out to people when they were in crises—death, terminal illness, loss—and that was all true. But, I found that going into the room where my own mother lay dying I had nothing to say—no words of hope, inspiration, comfort. Such is the hypocrite I am.
MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH Page 23
